One of my favourite moments as a journalist is when I reveal my disability after an interview. The silence on the other end is priceless. Just minutes earlier, we were having a seamless conversation—me taking notes, asking follow-up questions, everything flowing smoothly. Then, when I offer them a chance to ask me anything, they often say: “Tell us about yourself.”
Usually, I struggle with what to tell them to avoid lengthy explanations. So, to keep the conversation short, I drop the bombshell: “I’m blind.”
The disbelief is instant.
“Wait… what? But how—”
I turn on my camera. The shock as they see my white cane is something I never get tired of. Before they can recover, I’m already bidding them goodbye to go write their stories.
My name is John Adoyi. I’m a blind journalist, poet, and disability advocate. I can give you a vivid description of Lagos, even though the last time I saw it was 15 years ago. I remember the anger, madness, and chaotic rhythm that make it unique. And technology, though never perfect, has made this rhythm easier to follow. But this seamless integration didn’t happen overnight. It required years of adaptation, starting with the most fundamental tool that shaped my relationship with technology.
Braille revolution
Life wasn’t always this seamless. When glaucoma took my sight in 2004—a tragedy worsened by counterfeit eye drops and medical negligence—I couldn’t imagine that technology would become my eyes. The years of migraines and double vision that led to my sight going on permanent vacation are a story for another day.
As a blind person, Braille was my real introduction to tech. That six-dot system invented by Louis Braille became my lifeline when I had to leave mainstream school due to failing eyesight. By 2006, at Pacelli School for the Blind in Surulere, Braille, which allowed me to decode language through touch, became my window to the world.
I consumed everything in Braille: magazines, books like J.P. Clark’s “The Wives’ Revolt”, Gabriel Okara’s “Piano and Drums”, and Shakespeare’s “The Merchant of Venice”, all in massive, bulky volumes that could take up a whole schoolbag. But I didn’t mind. It was my gateway to knowledge. However, Braille had one major limitation: it created a barrier between me and the sighted world. This realisation led to my next technological encounter, which would test my patience in ways I never expected.
The typewriter that broke my heart
Then came the typewriter—supposedly a bridge to the sighted world, since they couldn’t read Braille, and I could no longer write in ink. However, that mechanical beast became my nemesis. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make it cooperate. Either the A4 paper wasn’t placed correctly, or the ribbon was faint. I’d type for hours, convinced words were appearing, only to be handed back blank pages or jumbled text. My highest typing score was 30 out of 100, while others scored 80 or even 100 per cent.
The computer lab incident that changed everything
As my feud with the typewriter continued, a ray of sunshine brightened my path. The school reintroduced computer learning, and I was elated—though my first day in the lab ended with me getting kicked out for sending keyboards crashing to the floor when my legs got tangled in cables. Banished from the lab, I thought my computer journey had ended before it began.
But a teacher saw potential in me. During break time a week later, she brought me back to the lab. She showed me how to power on the system, then introduced me to Job Access With Speech (JAWS) and Narrator—screen readers that transformed text into speech.
This was my turning point. I always looked forward to my days in the computer lab because just playing around with Microsoft Word 2007 and Notepad was fun for me. Still, I wasn’t a pro for many years. There were days I typed for hours only to discover my document was empty because a “Save As” dialogue box had silently intercepted my work. But I improved through constant practice, nearly destroying my father’s Dell laptop in the process.
By secondary school in 2011, computers replaced Braille as my primary tool. I took notes, submitted assignments, and even wrote exams using my laptop at Loyola Jesuit College. This breakthrough in computer literacy opened the door to infinite possibilities, including my first steps into the world of mobile communication.
Nokia nights and the mobile revolution
My first phone wasn’t a touchscreen; it was my mother’s simple Nokia 1600 with a keypad in 2006. Without speech software, I memorised keypress sequences and the alphabetical order of contacts. I called many wrong numbers due to incorrect digit placement. I would press ‘2’ three times to get a ‘C’, or ‘7’ four times to get an ‘S’, hoping it was correct when nobody was available to double-check.
I’ll never forget the 12:30 AM to 4:30 AM midnight calls on MTN—fertile ground for gossip and friendship for just ₦100. My first speech-enabled phone came in 2010: the Nokia N76, a Symbian phone where I could install third-party text-to-speech software. It changed everything, making phone communication easier and faster.
Image source: Pinterest
When smartphones arrived, I slowly transitioned. I now use an Android device with TalkBack, while some friends use VoiceOver on Apple devices. Even though text-to-speech still has quirks—freezing for no reason, requiring screen-reader gymnastics—I’ve become proficient at navigating Android. Google’s Gboard voice typing is a lifesaver, though it still struggles with African names and sometimes spells out punctuation instead of inserting symbols.
As my confidence with technology grew, so did my career aspirations. These tools weren’t just helping me communicate—they were opening doors to possibilities I’d never considered.
Finding my voice in journalism
I never saw myself becoming a journalist. I viewed journalism as a profession requiring sight to be effective. That changed when I met Ayoola, a blind journalist working with Voice of Nigeria in 2011. Having always admired radio personalities, meeting him allowed me to reconsider a career path beyond law.
Today, I work as a journalist using a combination of tools. I record interviews with notetakers, transcribe using transcription software, and use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) for scanned documents. I’ve conducted interviews on Zoom, Google Meet (my favourite), and in person.
I write drafts using Google Docs or Microsoft Word and edit with Grammarly or AI tools. Looking up information online is a big part of writing and editing. How do I browse a webpage? Keeping my screen reader on, I tap keys such as H, L, and B to jump to headings, lists, and buttons (like “Search”), respectively.
My earphones are always on me to avoid noise pollution, but I use only one of them. I keep one ear open so I can respond to someone calling out my name or saying a quick “hi” even as the screen reader chirps instructions into my other ear like a bird.
However, when it’s time to format and submit, I send the work to colleagues for final editing. Screen readers can’t always help with formatting, image descriptions, or fixing misaligned bullet points.
Tech that moves me (literally)
Before ride-hailing apps, moving around Lagos as a blind person was a test of faith. Buses don’t wait. Expressways like Along in Ikeja are war zones. Don’t get me started on the labyrinth that is Oshodi. Crossing busy roads alone isn’t possible in Nigeria. I’ve stood on roads for over 30 minutes, hoping someone would help me cross.
As for Lagos shortcuts? I avoid them. While sighted people can dash between nearby places like Orile and Doyin in Surulere, I’d rather take a keke than land in a gutter or get hit by a Lagos driver.
Then came Bolt, LagRide, and other ride-hailing apps. Now I don’t need to hustle for space in a danfo or wait endlessly at bus stops. I open an app, schedule a ride, and I’m on my way. It’s been life-saving for early meetings or visiting new places. Daily patronage would drain my wallet, and I still take buses with fellow Lagosians, but now I have options.
However, accessibility isn’t guaranteed. Some apps are difficult to navigate, requiring screen-reader gymnastics to book rides, with unlabeled buttons creating frustration. Still, it’s better than risking my life at junctions.
Tech that feeds me (literally)
As a foodie, logistics apps have become my best friends. Ordering food without stepping out? A blessing. But apps often throw curveballs: unlabeled buttons, images without descriptions, or unreadable menus. I want jollof rice, not a guessing game.
Apps delivering household items also ease life. Going to Nigerian markets as a blind person is a spiritual exercise—you pray, fast, and hope an angel appears to help. These platforms offer alternatives where I can search, add to cart, and purchase, when accessible. Jumia is an example.
Financial freedom!
Gone are the days I’d hand Lagos conductors two ₦1,000 notes instead of two ₦500s because I couldn’t tell the difference. Gone are the days I avoided roadside purchases because I didn’t trust sellers to give correct change.
Now, with the Cash Reader app, I can identify Naira notes accurately about 60% of the time. It’s imperfect, but it saves me from being cheated. More helpful is the rise of bank and fintech apps. With these apps, I barely carry cash. No more losing ₦2,000 while reaching for a handkerchief in the pocket, I kept my money. I can pay for items, top up airtime, and transfer funds from my phone.
I no longer need someone to read the recharge card digits. That’s freedom. Yet, even as I celebrate these technological victories, I’m reminded daily that this freedom exists within a larger landscape of challenges that technology alone cannot solve.
The reality check: Life isn’t perfect yet
Despite everything I’ve shared, life for people with disabilities remains challenging. Discrimination on Nigerian streets—by transport companies, supposed educated people, government officials, or colleagues—is a daily reality. Being told you’re unwanted in offices during job searches happens regularly—I’ve experienced it twice. Colleagues with degrees and brilliant minds face rejection from workplaces due to their disabilities.
Accessibility is nearly zero in Nigeria. The Discrimination Against Persons with Disabilities (Prohibition) Act promotes a societal overhaul to include everyone in daily living, but five years since its passage, it hasn’t gained momentum.
Using Nigerian-built apps and websites remains a daily struggle. Apart from a few companies with somewhat accessible applications, most, from government-owned to private sector platforms, lag far behind.
I still struggle to order items, pay for rides, or make transactions because buttons don’t work with screen readers. Product images lack alt text. Important details like price, quantity, or delivery options hide in inaccessible menus. I’ve abandoned orders halfway, countless times on Glovo and Konga. I don’t want to beg someone to read every step. I want to order food independently, buy clothes myself, and pay for services online without assistance. That’s what independence looks like. That’s what accessibility should guarantee.
Assistive technologies exist to relieve these burdens—Meta glasses, Envision AI glasses, Braille displays that function like computer screens—but they cost millions to purchase. For most Nigerians living with visual disabilities, these tools remain dreams. We make do with free screen readers, open-source software, and mobile apps.
A message to tech companies: build with us
Here’s the truth: when you don’t build for accessibility, you’re losing money and excluding approximately 27 million potential customers. People with disabilities use technology too. We want to order food, book rides, pay bills, attend meetings, and shop. When you ignore us in design, you close doors to an entire population.
Simple fixes—labelling buttons, describing images, testing with screen readers—can open platforms to blind users and others with disabilities.
When building platforms, it is important to follow global accessibility standards such as the Web Content Accessibility Guidelines (WCAG), developed by the World Wide Web Consortium (W3C). These guidelines outline everything developers need to do to ensure that digital experiences are inclusive.
Accessibility isn’t charity. It’s a smart design. It’s innovation. It’s inclusion.
Technology gave me independence I never thought possible. It transformed me from someone who struggled with typewriters to a blind journalist interviewing people across continents. But this journey isn’t complete until every app, every website, every digital platform becomes accessible to everyone.
Helen Keller once said, “The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.”
Today, I challenge Nigeria’s tech industry to have that vision—to see beyond the limitations others place on us and build a digital future that includes everyone.
This challenge brings me full circle to where I began this story. As a journalist, my role is to uncover stories, not become one. Yet, I have chosen to share my own experiences because there is still a significant gap in awareness about how assistive technologies are reshaping life for people with blindness. I also hope that by telling my story, sighted people will begin to see the blind not through the lens of limitation, but as capable individuals: professionals you can hire, partners you can build with, and friends you can simply enjoy being around.
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